


Kiss on the Hand

by greymissed



Category: Cardcaptor Sakura
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 13:34:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21357061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greymissed/pseuds/greymissed
Summary: Tomoyo wonders about a certain habit of her friend’s. ExT one-shot.
Relationships: Eriol Hiiragizawa/Daidouji Tomoyo
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	Kiss on the Hand

There is a small gasp, the usual blush, and a giggling retreat.

As Hikari-san walks away, the traces of a flush still on her face, Tomoyo turns to Eriol. She has watched this go on for years now. She used to find it amusing. Now it bothers her somewhat, though she can’t quite say why. Or she can, but won’t.

“Why do you do that?” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop herself. She hopes that he takes it as simple curiosity and nothing more. Nothing at all like jealousy, which she has reminded herself on more than one occasion she does not feel. She helps herself to a glass of wine from a passing waiter and takes a sip to hide her interest in his reply.

“Why?” he repeats her question, surprise evident on his face. It is a rare sight. “Habit, I suppose. It’s an old English custom.”

“I see.” And she does see. She’s seen enough to know that he means nothing by it.

“You think me terribly old-fashioned, don’t you?” he asks, his face lit with a charming, half-embarrassed smile.

“Now, give yourself some credit. I was thinking gallant.” She could stop now, let the inquiry cease at this point. It would not be strange. She would not have to open doors that she cannot shut. But the part of her that wants to ask the further question that has been on her mind is struggling. It wouldn’t be proper, really, to ask such a question. On the other hand, curiosity is burning her up inside. “You don’t… you don’t do it to everyone, though, do you?”

He cocks his head, his blue eyes measuring her. “No, I suppose not.”

“I mean, I don’t see you do it to Akiziku-san—though I suppose that would be a bit strange, since you created her… But you do it to Sakura-chan, and Chiharu-chan, and—and everyone else, really…” She’s aware that she’s rambling, though she never rambles. “That is, I mean, except…”

“… Except you. Is that what you’re asking about, Tomoyo-san?” he asks, amusement now tingeing his voice.

“Aah, it’s just… yes. I was wondering, that’s all. Why.” She looks away, unable to meet his eyes. She’s certain he’s caught on.

But he takes her chin in his hands and turns her face towards him. His eyes are trained on hers, intent, as if he is trying to discern something. She struggles to maintain a neutral expression. He has the most infuriating way of being able to read her thoughts, even when she’s trying to hide them.

Although the room is filled with revelers, it suddenly feels like they are the only two people in it.

How is it that eyes can be the clear blue of a summer’s day one minute and then dark as a wintry midnight sky the next? Does he see through her studied nonchalance? Can he tell that she is wondering what it would be like to drown in those eyes without reservation? He must, of course. He’s Eriol, the only one who is able to see beyond what she presents to the world. Conversely, she finds him the hardest to read out of the people she usually surrounds herself with. She sometimes glimpses a certain soft, almost yearning, look in his eyes when he looks at her. But, quick as a flash, it is gone, and she is left second-guessing herself. It suddenly occurs to her that it is possible he’s somehow guessed her attraction to him, and refrains from kissing her hand so as not to encourage her.

She wrenches her gaze away. “You know what? It’s okay, you don’t have to explain anything to me.”

She intercepts a passing waiter to return her empty glass and makes as if to leave, but Eriol’s hand encircling her wrist stops her. “Tomoyo-san, wait.”

Her heart does a little leap at the feel of his warm fingers against the sensitive skin of her wrist. “It’s fine, really. Oh, I see Yoshida-san over there. I should go say hi,” she says, trying to extricate herself.

But she recognizes the expression on his face. It is the insistent, stubborn, one, the one that brooks no argument. It is rarely seen, but it reminds her that he was once the most powerful sorcerer on earth. “No, it’s not fine. You can say hi another time.”

She swallows, but allows him to take her hand and lead her through the crowded room and through large French doors to a balcony that is, for the time being, unoccupied. Her thoughts are running a mile a minute. _He’s on to me, _she thinks. _He knows that I’m jealous and silly and, after all, just like all the other girls who’ve fallen for his charm. And what a ridiculous question it was to ask. _

It is a beautiful night. The air outside is warm and balmy and smells, Tomoyo thinks, faintly of magnolias. The full moon casts a pale glow on the balcony and the manicured gardens below. She can still hear bits of chatter and laughter from the party, but it’s quieter here. She takes a deep breath, ignoring the twinge of disappointment that she feels when he lets go of her hand. She will be fine, she tells herself. Whatever does or does not happen, they will be fine.

He moves to rest his hands on the balustrade and look out at the night sky. She notes, not for the first time that evening, that he cuts a very fine figure in his tailored navy suit indeed.

“A kiss on the hand denotes courtesy, politeness, respect and admiration,” he begins, still looking out rather than at her. “It was considered a respectful way for gentleman to greet or to depart from a lady.”

“I understand, really I do—can we just drop this?” She interrupts.

He turns around and his eyes lock on hers, his expression almost mocking. Although he is several feet away, his hold on her feels almost physical. “And, pray tell, what do you understand?”

“Well, it’s a polite gesture. And we are too good of friends to have to be bothered with that sort of thing,” she ventures, with more confidence than she feels.

He blinks. She sees him consider her explanation. It was the most plausible one she could muster. But then he rouses himself with a shake of the head. “A good explanation. One I wish I had thought of myself,” he mutters, though he seems to be talking more to himself than to her. “To be honest, this isn’t a conversation I thought we’d have today. But since you asked… “

“Eriol-san, really, it’s fine.”

“Since you asked,” he repeats, ignoring her entreaty to stop, “I will tell you today.”

He advances towards her, and she wonders how it is she can be feeling warm in her slinky evening gown out of doors on a late October evening. “Courtesy, politeness, respect and admiration… You are entirely deserving of that. But,” he continues, now standing right in front of her, so close that she can smell his cologne, a heady scent that has her fairly breathless, “That is not all I feel. For you. It would be… disingenuous of me to take advantage of this custom in the circumstances.”

The part of her that understands what he is telling her can’t seem to properly communicate with the part of her that is unable to believe it. Still, the swirl of thoughts in her head is nothing to the tumult in her heart. She recognizes the latter as a mixture of joy, relief, hope and also some trepidation. But mostly it feels like hope.

“I beg your pardon.” She wonders when her body had started betraying her; her voice has a strange, low quality to it, and her cheeks feel positively hot – it must, she is certain, show up as a blush on her pale skin.

He grasps her hands in his, moving them up slowly to his lips. His eyes search hers, as if waiting for her to pull away. But she finds that she can only watch dumbly, as if this were something happening to someone else. She notes faintly that her hands are trembling ever so slightly. The feeling of his warm breath on the back of her hands is sufficient to send tremors up and down her spine.

Just as she begins to wonder if he will ever actually kiss her hands, he lifts them the final few inches to his lips and turns them slightly, pressing a kiss on the inside of each wrist. Her eyes can’t help but flutter shut at the feel of his lips brushing softly against her skin.

She opens them again when he continues to speak, his voice nearly a whisper. “You see, my dear Tomoyo, it isn’t that I don’t want to. Traditionally it is on the back of the hand, of course, but…”

Her heart sings at the look in his eyes. She does not miss the fact that he has dropped the honorifics altogether. She has been wrong, so wrong. For now, _now_, it is plain as day...

“A kiss on the hand is something I would give a friend or an acquaintance without a second thought. But for you, I can’t not think about it. Because to you, Tomoyo, I would like to… I would like to…” He seems to have lost both his voice and his nerve.

His eyes are darker than she’s ever seen them. She leans forward almost unconsciously.

He swallows, and the action makes her want to lick his throat, and follow that line up to the faint dip in his lower lip. “I would like more,” he says finally, his voice hoarse. “May I?”

Wordlessly, she nods. There is no turning back now.


End file.
